Sister Cities

Part 46: Vi

CW: police brutality (graphic)

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All my days have turned to darkness

Hell is leaving the light on

And they'll hang me way up high

And God himself will drop me from the sky

And let me swing awhile

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 I dreamed that a navy-haired enforcer broke me out of here. That we went to the Undercity and found out Powder was still alive, but working for Silco. That I lost a fight to Sevika and the enforcer saved my life. That I found Powder and Ekko, then lost them, and that something disastrous happened with a missile and the capitol building. That things were okay for a little while afterward, with me and Powder and Ekko and the enforcer sticking together. That Ekko led a revolution and won. That the enforcer touched me with gentle hands and said my name. That the city was free, but Powder was gone.

This false life seemed to last for days: vivid, heavy, unbroken. But it falls to tatters when the groaning clang of my cell bars comes through.

"Up, Five-One-Six. Now. We need to have a chat."

I open my eyes slowly, pretending I don't recognize the warden's voice. In my dream, the enforcer killed him— a bullet to his forehead, point-blank. I've had dreams of him dying before, usually by my own hand, but they're never real; I don't know why I thought this time would be any different.

The last thing I remember is interrogating a new inmate, one of Silco's men, and breaking his jaw when he gave me nothing. That's the usual story behind my chats.

The overhead lights drill into my pupils as I drag myself to my feet. My hands are cuffed behind my back, a long chain trailing to the wall, and the warden unlocks them after he's shut the door behind him. He likes to see me capable of fighting and choosing not to. If I fight back, he'll kill me, and if I'm dead, I'll never find Powder, so I let him do what he wants.

It's a regular thing— I can't tell time down here, but if I had to guess, it's at least weekly— and we have a whole routine. As always, he starts out just poking me with the end of his baton, testing the waters, chuckling when I reflexively retreat from the harmless pressure. At this point in the game, I cross my arms and scowl and commit to staying on my feet, figuring for one reason or another that this will be the day I pull it off.

After probably half a minute, he switches from poking to light swinging, a jarring impact I can take easily but still flinch from, despite my best efforts.

"Scared?" the warden says.

"No," I say. "Sir."

He swings the baton a bit harder into my left shoulder. It unbalances me, just a tiny bit, and I correct instantly. He goes for my right shoulder next, then my hip, then my kneecap, then circles me and gets a jab with the end between my shoulder blades. He takes his sweet time. At this point in the game, I clench my teeth to make sure I stay quiet.

"You're brave today," remarks the warden, and gets my wrist, right on the outer knob of bone. Energy rings down through my fingers. "Look at that nose." He leans down toward me and prods the end of it with his knuckle. I wrinkle it harder. "Want to show me what you got?"

My fists curl, but I force them to stay down.

"I asked you a question, Five-One-Six. Do you need me to repeat it?" he asks, twirling the baton.